


A Phone Call will Do

by whirlingdervish



Series: Ring More Often [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 01:48:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4329117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whirlingdervish/pseuds/whirlingdervish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having lied to John about having a case, Sherlock instead goes home for his obligatory semi-annual visit with his Parents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Phone Call will Do

It was a dreary sort of afternoon, which suited Sherlock fine. The cloud’s oppressive darkness matched his mood, and an easterly wind came biting. He crammed his hands down deep into the pockets of his Bellstaff coat and frowned at the rolling green hills. A few feet away, frowning in much the same manner, his father stood, observing the sheep in the neighbor’s pasture.

 

As obligatory visits go, this was no more painful than usual. At least there was a companionable silence. He could always count on his father to give him the silence and space he so badly craved. Mummy, on the other hand, was constantly nattering on, effectively smothering his train of thought like a well-placed pillow, not letting up until his brain was nothing more than radio static and her grating, chipper voice. No, his father wasn’t a particularly deep pond, but still very placid.

 

A few spitting drops of rain landed on Sherlock’s cheek and nose, but the clouds seemed unable to be bothered with actual rain.

 

Without discussing it, the two began to walk, as they had several times in his youth, no particular destination in mind, just strolling along the hedgerows toward the village. He marked familiar milestones as they passed, glancing furtively at his father, who strolled with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes fixed somewhere vaguely up ahead.

 

“I won’t tell your mother,” his father finally said.

 

Sherlock gratefully pulled the pack of cigarettes that were weighing heavily from his pocket. He slid one out of the pack and gently pinched it between his lips while he fumbled for his matchbook.

 

Everything out here was squashy, old and moldering. Moss softened all the edges, and made the air ripe with the smells of old growth. The acrid fragrance of his cigarette pushed back some of the mildewed sweetness of the country air and reminded Sherlock more of the sharp tang of the city. He’d rather smell the bluntness of concrete and diesel fumes of London.

 

“It’s so stagnant.”

 

“Hm?” His father replied.  Sherlock couldn’t be sure if he was asking for clarification or agreeing with him. It was quite likely both.

 

The gravel path crunched rhythmically under their feet as their steps fell into synch. Sherlock was content to listen to their footfalls, punctuated occasionally by the call of a thrush in the hawthorns or the scampering of the voles in the long grass at the side of the path.

 

Their trek paused briefly as they passed the cemetery near the parish church, and Siger Holmes craned his neck a bit to look into yard where tombstones  lined like crooked teeth, some leaning so badly they looked like they would topple. The newer graves lay further back where the polished stones gleamed and the plush green grass was cut short.

 

Sherlock knew his aunt, a cousin and his grandparents were buried there. He remembered their funerals in obscure details the way children do; they had served carrot cake afterward, or he had skinned his knee prior to the service and was miserable about it the entire time, or Mycroft had explained to him that Heaven was a myth and a lie people used to comfort the living. He was 7 at the time. A little behind his grandparents markers was a small white monument for his infant sister who died before Sherlock was even a thought in his parent’s hearts. His eldest brother was not there, though, and he wondered as he watched his father's faded blue eyes scanning the yard over the stone fence, what he thought about that. They didn’t talk about things like that. Even after he died, when Sherlock would ask about him the room would suddenly feel like all the air got sucked out – and fire can’t survive in a vacuum, so it would suddenly grow very cold.  Sherlock couldn’t understand it then any more than he could now.

 

With a little sigh from his father, they continued, and Sherlock fell back a pace and watched his father, in his terrible jumper that looked a lot like something John might wear when he’s older, shuffle along completely unhurried and unconcerned. It struck him then in how many ways his father reminded Sherlock of John: his straightforward mind, his clear sense of morality, his unwavering loyalty- terrible sense of fashion.

 

His mobile buzzed in his pocket and he reached in; it was a text from John.

 

**Messages: John Watson**

**How goes the case?**

Sherlock slipped the phone back in his pocket and took a deep drag of his cigarette, filling his lungs with burning smoke. He didn’t reply, but he seldom did. He wasn’t comfortable lying to John, and he had already stretched the truth about there being a case so he could slip away to the country for his semi-annual visit to his parents without probing questions. No sense in embellishing it further. Only lies had detail.

 

Siger Holmes glanced at his son knowingly, but remained silent.

 

Sherlock slowly released the smoke in curling tendrils from his nose and felt another drop of rain on his brow.  His father looked up into the darkening sky but didn’t hurry his pace at all.

 

“Supper’s probably on,” he said as they rounded the bend back toward the cottage.

 

Sherlock stabbed out his cigarette on a fencepost as they passed, and flicked it into a quivering puddle. The rain seemed to have made up its mind to at least drip lazily on them. He knew the smell of his smoking would cling to him and he knew his mother wouldn’t say anything about it, only regard him with the eyes that were so similar to his own, razor sharp. Her mouth would press into a thin, firm line and she would direct him to wash up before sitting at the table, and that would be all.

 

“Sherlock,” Siger said as they pushed open the gate, “We do enjoy our time with you. Your mother-“ he paused, thoughtfully, “Well, she doesn’t say, but she misses you. I know you’re busy in London with the work and your friends…”

 

Sherlock snorted derisively.

 

“But a phone call would do, every now and then,” his father continued undeterred.

 

Sherlock looked down at his shoes and at the gathering rain drops on the leather, the temptation to whinge and moan carefully tucked away. It was true- he was terrible at calling. It was tedious. Why bother when he had nothing to say? He certainly didn’t care to hear about the village gossip or how he should bring John around, since mummy was keen to meet “the man behind the blog.”

 

“Smells delicious,” Siger remarked suddenly, changing the subject, giving Sherlock a much needed out.  He turned the knob and pushed open the door, the rich smells of dinner wafting out and the warmth inside bright and cheerful and all an illusion. Siger made his way into the house, and Sherlock followed quietly.

 

 


End file.
